Murder at the Thompsons
by Metal K
Summary: Hercule Poirot, Inspector Jacques Cleausou and Bertrom Wooster with his faithful companion Jeeves are called in to help solve the murder of a young girl.


I do not own the characters of Hercule Poirot, Captain Hastings, Inspector Clouseau, Bertram Wooster or Jeeves. They belong to their respective creators. I know that they don't all come from the same era, but bear with me, okay?

(Note: I'm hopeless at writing accents, so you'll just have to imagine them for yourselves. I'll try Clouseau's, though no one really knows what it's supposed to sound like)

Invitations 

"You don't understand! It's for your own good, Jennifer."  
"Who are you to decide what's best for me? I'm not a child."  
Lily crept closer to the door, absent-mindedly dusting the assortment of vases and photographs on the mantelpiece. She had never heard Mrand Miss Thompsonin such a heated argument before. They had not had a quarrel since they were young children. Lily, though approaching 65, had sharp eyes and ears, and her memory was not fading in any respect. She was not above eavesdropping on her master and mistress, but in this case should would not have been able to avoid doing so even if she had wanted to; their voices had raised to the level that she was sure they could be heard out in the garden outside. The aging maid crept closer to hear more of the conversation.

"You're not listening to me Jennifer. I'm only trying to protect you…"  
"You can't treat me like I'm sixteen anymore." Jennifer retorted. Her brother was being unacceptably overbearing. She was sick of him trying to protect her. "I'm a grown woman now, I can look after myself."  
"You're only twenty-three." Wilfred took a step forward. "You're too young to get involved with a man like that. You have to listen to me."  
"You have to stop lecturing me about my choices. You won't be happy until you have me tied down like a dog."  
With this statement, Jennifer turned on her heel and stormed out, almost crashing into Lily the maid, who had been dusting by the door. Without stopping to apologize, Jennifer strode through the halls of the extravagant mansion their parents had left for them to share. Sharing a building with her over-protective brother seemed impossible for the young lady at the moment. She hurried out into the gardens and down the path. Why was her brother so controlling of her? Ever since she had turned eighteen, Wilfred had seemed to control her every movement; she could not do anything without his blessing. She was sick of it. Perhaps she would go and stay with her Aunt Bessie in the country. She was halfway down the path leading to the gate at the end of the garden, when she heard a crack like a whip. She felt something smash into her back, and fell to the floor. Unable to stand, Jennifer turned to look back at the house and saw a figure rushing towards her from the house. Her vision faded, and she collapsed, resting her head on the ground. She closed her eyes and life faded from the young lady's heart.

Hercule Poirot shook the crumbs from his newspaper. Why Hastings insisted on eating his breakfast in a rush every morning before leaving was beyond him. Breakfast, while not the same with English cuisine, should be taken seriously, each mouthful carefully chewed and consumed with care. Poirot would not be surprised if his friend would become ill with indigestion one of these days. Glancing at the headlines, he took a bite of his croissant and chewed thoughtfully. He had not had a case in a few weeks. Whilst it was fortunate that there had been no murders or thefts, Poirot was beginning to become bored. He could not sit at home all day with nothing but the newspapers and his own mind to occupy himself. Perhaps he would take a holiday. Miss Lemmon came through to the dining room holding an envelope. Poirot smiled as she came in.  
"Ah, Miss Lemmon. Is that a letter for me?"  
"Yes, it was came with the morning post." She handed him the envelope and turned to leave. Poirot carefully peeled the envelope open and scanned the letter contained inside. "Ah," He muttered to himself, raising his eyebrows. "Most interesting."

Inspector Clouseau opened the door to his apartment, ready to defend himself from a volley of Cato's attacks. The hall was empty, however, so he took off his over coat and hat and hung them on the stand by the door. "Cato, my little yellow friend, I'm home!" He called out. He turned to go into the kitchen and almost collided with Cato who was standing there calmly. "Cato!" Clouseau cried. "You fritined me. You must not fritin me. I am dangerous when fritined. I could accidentally beat your little yellow brains out."  
"Sorry, sir." Cato replied in his brisk Japanese manner. "But an important letter has come for you. I thought we would skip the usual dual."  
"Yes, well it is lucky for you my instinct told me not to attack. I have recently learnehd a new martial technique, which would make my opponent submit and leave him with a nimber of briken bins."  
"'Bins', sir?" Cato asked curiously.  
"Yes?"  
"You said 'bins'."  
"Yes I know that you feul." Clouseau snapped back. He took the letter from Cato's hand and went into the kitchen. Sitting at the table, he opened the letter and briefly read it. "Cato, pack my bags. I am leaving for England tomorrow to attend a dinner party with a…" He checked the letter. "Monsieur Thompson."

"I don't know why we bother with politics at all, really." Bertie Wooster inhaled another whiff of his cigarette. "I mean, they all promise to make the country better if and when they are elected Prime Minister, but that all goes out the window when they're actually in office."  
"That's the problem with leaders these days." Bingo replied from his seat opposite Bertie's armchair. "They never think about the good of the country, they only want to make sure our image is kept up and that their own pockets are lined." "Yes." Bertie took another whiff. "I mean, let's say there was a politician, let's call him Reginald. Now, Reginald's a member of the Labour party, and he wants to be elected Prime Minister by the public. In his proverbial battle against the other parties, he tries to win the common man's favour with false promises and generous actions. Now, one day Reginald is going out for a walk and is immediately pounced upon by reporters and newspapermen. With a small smile to show his contentment with his personal life and short, encouraging answers to their questions, Reginald happens to see a schoolgirl sitting on the pavement, sobbing over the fact that her poor little doll has fallen into a puddle nearby. With no apparent concern for his own appearance or jacket, Reginald plunges his arm into the puddle" (There was a small chink of glass from the kitchen at this point as Jeeves reacted to this vision of recklessness) "And retrieves the doll, handing it to the said girl with an expression of generosity and kindness. 'Like this doll', he says, turning to the newspaper people, 'I shall return to Britain its respect and dignity. There shall be no fear of puddles from the moment I have been elected to my parochial position.' The little girl runs home to tell her father of this wonderful Messiah, who has promised a future of puddle-free lives for the people of Britain, and so the father scribbles down an X next to Reginald's name when the election time comes, speedily hastening the estranged saviour to his position in office. However, after the first few days of his election, when the public have settled down from the excitement of having a new, puddle resistant Prime Minister, Reginald hastens to use his political fees and the taxes of the public to finance his own personal well-being, leaving the puddles of Britain to enlarge until it is known as the United Swamp." After this small monologue, Bertie leant back in his armchair and took a final inhalation of his cigarette, before stubbing it out on the ashtray to the side of him. A sharp tap on the door caused Jeeves to return, complete with whitewashed apron, from the kitchen, and open the door to a small, timid man holding an envelope.  
"A letter for Mr Wooster." He said, handing the envelope to Jeeves. "Thank you Mr Grumbly." Jeeves replied. He accepted it and bade the visitor goodbye with an inclination of his head.  
"You know Bertie," Bingo took another cigarette from the box that lay open on the coffee table and lit it. "I never really thought of politicians as mere mortal men, but as godly figures who decide the fate of our country for our greater good. That was until I attended that meeting with Mr Rowanberry. He has the most interesting views on the Conservative party."  
"A letter for you, sir." Jeeves held out the envelope for Bertie.  
"Ah, thank you Jeeves." Bertie took the envelope and opened it, taking out the letter and perusing its contents. Once he had finished, he announced, "Jeeves, pack my things. We are going to stay at old Bumble Thompson's for the weekend."  
"Very good, sir." Jeeves replied and retreated into the master bedroom.


End file.
